


to wear your wrists unfastened

by evocates



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Ribbons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It's called hunter green,” the shop assistant tells him cheerfully as she shoves his purchases into a bag.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Valjean, Javert, and yards upon yards of ribbon. That’s it. That’s the entire fic.</p><p>Treat for Esteliel for Trick or Treat 2015. Kind of a coda to <i>empire of dirt, </i>the other fic written for this exchange, or an AU of that AU. You don’t need to read that one if you want to read this one. Title bastardised from <i>Much More</i> from <i>The Fantasticks</i> soundtrack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to wear your wrists unfastened

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> **Warnings** (expanded from the tags): Mostly ribbon bondage porn with garnishing of orgasm denial, breathplay, and a bit of D/s that’s, while not fully acknowledged, understood, or named, is _entirely_ consensual.

He sees them during one of his patrols. Maybe it's the way the setting sun casts light through the shop window. Maybe it's because the shop looks bright and cheery, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the other dilapidated buildings on the street. Maybe it's both of those things.

Or maybe, just maybe, he's sick in the head. That's the most convincing option so far.

“It's called hunter green,” the shop assistant tells him cheerfully as she shoves his purchases into a bag. Her smile is wide and white. He shoves his hands inside the pocket of his coat and tries to not meet her eyes. “Do you have a lot of presents to wrap? Some kind of Hobbit birthday party, maybe?”

He has no idea what a Hobbit is, much less what their birthday party is like. For a moment, he wants to tell her what exactly he has in mind for those lengths of 'hunter green' that he just bought. He decides that he still has enough sanity and dignity to not, so he just mumbles something incomprehensible to himself and strides (flees) from the shop.

After he goes back to the office, he shoves the things into the bottom drawer of his desk, buried underneath piles of outdated paperwork and stationery. And they stay right there for three weeks - three fucking weeks where he can't gather up the courage to ask a damned question, because asking Valjean for things is far more terrifying than being in a gunfight. His eyes keep twitching towards it. By the end of the third week, he's sure that Chabouillet probably thinks that he has drugs in there or something equally horrible.

His partner - a Hispanic woman in her early thirties named Montoya who was assigned to him couple of months after his dip into the Bay – grabs the bag from him when he’s but a few steps from the door. Javert twitches, barely stifling the urge to reach for his gun.

“Ribbons?” she looks up at him, one eyebrow hiked. “ _That’s_ your big secret?”

Snatching it back, he gives her his sharpest glare. She looks unfazed, of course; he would’ve tossed her out within a day if she couldn’t even handle that.

“I’m sorry I don’t live up to your expectations,” he says. The sarcasm in his voice is enough to drip from his voice and fill the air around them.

She seems to notice it as well, because she waves a hand in front of her nose theatrically. “God forbid you actually live up to anyone’s expectations,” she says, her voice just as dry. She eyes him speculatively. “And here I was thinking that you’re boring.”

He’s halfway through opening his mouth to tell her to rid her mind of the filth that’s so clearly showing through her eyes, but he still can’t lie. So he only walks away, practically fleeing down to his car.

Oh, he knows he has changed; how can he not acknowledge a fact that blindingly simple when he sees evidence of it every single day? Not that it’s a bad thing, far from it: he hoards every reminder better than a dragon does its jewels, this constant mantra of: _I was wrong. I was so damned wrong_.

That’s not a bad thing either. 

He practices lines in the car, ways to propose this to Valjean. _I saw this and thought it would look good on your skin_ , maybe- no, that’s far too forward. _Do you mind putting that against your wrist and letting me see how it looks_ \- no, that’s not honest enough. _I think this colour will look really beautiful on you_ \- no, that will just end up in circles.

When he pulls into the driveway of Valjean’s house – he actually has a driveway in a city as overpopulated as this one; a fact that Javert never stops marvelling at – he’s still mouthing lines, testing them out. It needs to be perfect. It needs to be honest and not touch Valjean’s scars at the same time.

So of course, the first thing that he blurts out the moment he sees Valjean is:

“I bought ribbons and I want to tie you up with them.”

Valjean blinks. He stands there at doorway in jeans and a t-shirt that stretches over his broad shoulders and thick arms, and just _blinks_ at him. Javert watches, a little hysterically, as Valjean opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again.

“What?”

The weight of the bag is suddenly too much. He shoves it towards Valjean.

“Ribbons,” he says. After a moment, he realises that a single word is no explanation at all. He swallows, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“See, I was… I was on patrol one day, and I saw this in the shop. And I don’t know what I was thinking, really- no, I _know._ The colour will look beautiful on your skin, that’s what I was thinking. And I just… I can’t get it out of my head. Just the way you would look, if it’s winding around your arms, your legs…” He trails off when he realises that Valjean is still staring at him, a little bug-eyed now.

He clears his throat.

“Uh, can I come in?” 

“I need to think about it,” Valjean says, the words coming out in a rush. He blinks, then shakes his head, and nods, and made a full-body twitch before he steps back. “I mean, of course you can come in, but I just need to think about…” He waves the bag in his hand. 

The plastic crinkles, over-loud, and Javert flinches.

“This,” Valjean finishes.

“Okay,” Javert says. 

It’s fine. _It’s fine_. He’s not going to push Valjean, not about this. He’s not going to be selfish again; look at what happened the last time he did. Well, no, he would be fine if he ended up imploding again, but this isn’t about him. This is about _Valjean_ , and… and there is such a world of difference in between them he has no words to describe it.

He takes a step into the house.

“I’m not saying no,” Valjean says, closing the door. “I just…” he shrugs, looking a little helpless. “I just need to think about it, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Javert says again. He bites his lip. “I really mean that. I can wait. And, and you don’t have to, if you don’t want.”

There’s a moment when he keeps his eyes fixed on Valjean’s, trying to get him to see that he is _really_ being honest here. He strips off his shields without a thought, letting Valjean look and see all that he wants, because there has been too much hiding and his reputation of never lying just doesn’t hold much water anymore.

After a moment, Valjean nods. “Okay.” He runs a hand over his scalp, then downwards. For the briefest moment, his hand brushes over the tattoo on his neck. Javert tries to not stare.

“Uhm, anyway,” Valjean says, and Javert jerks his eyes back to his face. Valjean is smiling at him, tentative and terribly sweet.

“Dinner?”

“Okay,” Javert says, because he seems capable of no other vocabulary. 

He takes off his shoes.

***

The next week is a special kind of torture. 

He goes to Valjean’s house every day still – his apartment is growing dusty by now, but he would really rather not assume – and they would have dinner. 

Sometimes they will lie side-by-side on the couch and Valjean will listen to him rant at ten o’clock police procedural shows, his shoulders shaking with helpless laughter. Sometimes they will kiss. Sometimes Valjean will bring him to bed and take him, slow and gentle like no one has before, so much that Javert would call it ‘making love’ if he’s not so terrified of that word. Sometimes they will go to bed and do nothing but curl up next to each other, Javert stroking his fingers over Valjean’s shoulders and arms, endlessly fascinated by the ripples of the muscles under the skin. By the sheer warmth of him, as if Valjean’s soul is a star that cannot be contained, heating up his body and light pouring through his eyes.

Javert hasn’t been cold at night ever since they first started to share a bed. It’s… something he cannot find words for, especially since he used to burn his clothes by standing too close to heaters and stoves.

He tries to not think about it, burying himself in his work and focusing on it, constantly stifling the eager questions that nudge at the back of his throat.

So when Valjean tells him, “Okay,” during dinner one night, he’s caught off-guard.

“What?” Javert blinks. He has been distracted, thinking about his recent case of a serial kidnapping that hasn’t been receiving much media attention because the victims are not white or female.

Valjean clears his throat. “I thought about it,” he says, every word carefully enunciated. “And… okay.”

“Oh.”

“Unless you changed your mind?” Uncertainty flashes in dark eyes.

“No!” Javert says, too loud. He bites his lip. “No,” he says again, softer this time. He shakes his head. 

“I- I haven’t. I’ve been thinking about it a lot so… so yes, I want to.” He looks at Valjean, unbearably unsure. “If… if you’re sure you want to?”

A warm hand reaches over the table and takes his own, squeezing lightly. “I want to,” Valjean says. When Javert searches his eyes, he can’t find a lie.

He takes a deep breath. “Tonight?”

Valjean nods. Javert swallows and grips that hand tightly.

“Thank you,” he says. Not just because he thinks he should, but he knows well that this is… this is trust, in a way that neither of them has ever been good at. Valjean is placing himself, body and mind and heart, into his hands.

There needs to be a word for the fear he feels whenever he has what he wants, but he doesn’t know how to hold it because it’s far too precious and he’s terrified by the roughness of his grip.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Valjean says, ducking his head. There’s the lightest dust of red on his cheeks, showing through his dark skin. Javert bites the inside of his cheek so he won’t touch. He takes another breath.

“Bedroom, then?”

“I—” Valjean hesitates. He closes his eyes, and takes a breath. His smile trembles at the edges when he looks at Javert again. “… Okay.”

Javert lets go of his hand. But before Valjean can react, he cups that beloved face with both of his, bringing him close. He doesn’t kiss him, only leans their foreheads together until his world is filled with nothing but those dark eyes, until his every breath is warmed by Valjean’s lungs.

“You don’t have to do this for me,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm but firm at the same time. “I won’t- I won’t think less of you for it. It won’t change anything between us if you refuse. I don’t- I don’t want you to think that you _have_ to do this?”

Valjean’s hands curl around his wrists. Dark lashes flatter shut, and he turns his head, sliding his cheek gently over Javert’s.

“I know,” he says, and his voice is so quiet that Javert has to strain to hear, even this close. “I know that. And I want to. I really _do_ want to. It’s just that…”

Javert waits. He tries to not hold his breath.

“I’ve never told you this, but…” Valjean opens his eyes, and his smile turns wry. “There has never been anyone before you, so…”

“Oh.” A too-small word. Utterly inadequate. But what else can he say? _I’ve never wanted anyone before you_ has already been said. He swallows. 

“You don’t have to,” he says ago.

“But I want to, Javert,” Valjean says, and that wry smile curves up even further. “I thought about it after you left. I kept thinking about it every single day for the past week. And I…”

He laughs, a soft, burbling sound thick with uncertainty.

“I want to so badly that it’s scaring me.”

Javert opens his mouth. He closes it. “Oh,” he says again. His head is spinning a little, so many images threatening to crowd into the edge of his vision that it’s turning grey. He takes a deep breath, and tries to steady himself.

“Is that…” Valjean is asking, the insecurity even clearer now. “Is that okay? Javert?”

He desperately searches his mind for words. There has to be _something_ that is enough; that can express the way he feels right at this moment. But his mind is too filled with pictures _(green against Valjean’s skin, the way his mouth opens when he comes, the trembling of those strong, wiry muscles as they struggle against thin, silky ribbons)_ for words.

All he can offer is this: he cups Valjean’s face, and kisses him. He lets his desire spill over from inside him into his mouth, hand sliding to Valjean’s neck and thumb stroking over the tattoo. He curls towards him, fingers clenching into the sleeve of Valjean’s shirt to steady his suddenly-shaking knees.

Valjean’s arm slides across his shoulders, callused fingertips dipping beneath the collar of his shirt. Javert groans into his mouth, clenching even tighter, and it turns strangled when Valjean rocks his hips forward. His cock hardens further inside his pants, and Javert squeezes his eyes shut when he feels Valjean’s equally-hard cock press against him, the heat scorching even through the layers of cloth.

When they break away, they’re both panting. Javert tips his head back, gulping down air like a drowning man.

“Does that,” Valjean asks, the trace of mirth in his voice sinking in despite the roaring heartbeat in his ears. “Is that an ‘okay’?”

Javert blinks. He drags a hand over his hair before cupping Valjean’s cheek again. It feels hot beneath his hand, and the red flush has turned his skin the gleam of newly-polished bronze.

God, he’s so fucking lucky. How the hell did he get so fucking lucky?

“It’s more than okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s…. God.” He shakes his head hard.

“Bedroom?”

Valjean nods. He makes to pull away, but Javert catches his wrist. When Valjean turns startled eyes on him, he raises it, turning it over, and kisses the scars revealed by the pulled-back sleeve.

“Thank you,” he says. Before Valjean can protest, he quirks his lips a little and changes the subject. “Where did you put the ribbons?”

He gets another soft laugh as a reward. Valjean’s fingers curl over his, brushing over the tips.

“Nightstand,” he says. When Javert blinks, he laughs again, this time a little sheepishly. “It was kind of a hopeful thing.”

Javert blinks again. “I didn’t see them,” he blurts out.

“Well,” Valjean says, rubbing his hand over his scalp. His smile turns a little bashful at the edges, and the blush deepens. “I… Uhm, well, I hid them under the Bible.”

This time, Javert kisses him without even realising that he’s doing it; kisses him with hands cupped around those warm cheeks, tongue sliding against palate and teeth to try to draw out the sweet remnants of those words that have twined around his spine.

“Oh.” His voice sounds far too breathy. His hand slaps over his mouth, as if to swallow it back, but it’s too late.

Valjean peels away his hand from his mouth. Ducking his head, he slides his lips over the knuckles. “Stop that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to do that.”

There is no reproach in his eyes, but Javert looks away nonetheless. It takes all the force of his will to not bite his lip, or the inside of his cheek, or anywhere else. He’s… he’s better now than before. The bleeding edges of himself have scabbed over, and even now he is being slowly pieced back together by Valjean’s hands.

But the scars never seem to heal, and he can’t help but the twisting impatience he feels towards himself. He should be better than this by now. He should not have to worry Valjean like this when all he wants is to bring him pleasure and show him just how much he means to him. He should not have made Valjean have to take care of him, especially when he wants to do the opposite.

He swallows. “Bedroom?” he says, and tries for a little more levity: “Maybe we will get there this time.”

The dark eyes that turn upon him are as perceptive and knowing as always. Javert swallows, nervousness coiling in his stomach as he waits. Maybe Valjean will change his mind about this. Maybe this is what will make him change his mind about trusting a man like Javert. Maybe…

Valjean nods. “Let’s go, then,” he says, and tugs on Javert’s wrist.

Javert follows. The twisting, tightening thing in his chest dissipates into nothingness, just like that.

“Here,” Valjean says, when they have crossed the doorway of the bedroom and is now standing beside the bed. He takes out the plastic bag from the drawer with the Bible, and holds it out to Javert.

“So…”

 _Now what?_ Javert looks around. The sun has long ago set, and he has switched on the light when they entered the room. But the fluorescent is too coarse, practically washing out Valjean’s skin. He meets those dark eyes for a moment more, his fingertips brushing over the curve of one cheek.

“Hold on,” he says. “Just… hold on.” He stops at the doorway, and flashes Valjean the most reassuring smile he can manage. It probably makes him look like a crocodile or a particularly deranged wolf. He has never been good with smiling. He has never wanted to _be_ until recently.

“I’m coming back.”

He goes into the kitchens without even knowing what exactly he’s looking for, simply following the orders of some animal part of his brain that has taken command over his feet and hands. It’s only when he comes back to the bedroom that he realises that he has a lighter in one hand and three candles in the other.

Valjean is sitting on the bed, legs swinging a little. He looks up, startled, when Javert enters the room, and he cocks his head at the sight of the candles.

“The light,” Javert tries to explain. He waves his hand vague towards the ceiling. “It’s. Just. The light.” 

“Javert,” Valjean says, his hand catching his wrist. The candles clatter on the nightstand. The plastic of the lighter clacks against the floorboards. Javert blinks.

“What?”

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” he says. He hesitates for a moment while Javert holds his breath. “I want this, and you... you’re not going to hurt me.”

Closing his eyes, Javert brings Valjean’s hand up, pressing the knuckles over his forehead. “I should be saying that to you,” he says. His voice shakes. “I should be telling you that I’m not going to hurt you.”

“No,” Valjean murmurs. The tips of his fingers brush over Javert’s cheek, following the curve down to his jaw. Javert opens his eyes, and Valjean’s smile is a lopsided thing. There are stars in his eyes. “You don’t have to. I know you won’t.”

 _I don’t deserve the trust you give to me,_ Javert wants to say. But those are words he has said before: dozens, hundreds, perhaps even thousands of times. Every single time, he has expected Valjean to change his mind, to finally realise just what Javert is, to understand that all he has done, all the fear and pain and suffering he has wrought upon him, is something that cannot be forgiven.

Yet every single time, Valjean has only given him this same smile with such tenderness in his eyes, and though Javert cannot stop doubting, the words will no longer form on his tongue. Not anymore.

So he only nods. He leans forward, pressing his lips against Valjean’s temple, inhaling his scent. Valjean smells like earth and grass and sunshine, so different from the concrete and sewage and ever-lasting stale rain of the city. He cups his hand over Valjean’s neck, thumb stroking over the tattoo. Valjean’s arm slides across his shoulders, holding him close, anchoring him, and Javert simply breathes.

“Okay,” he says, when his heartbeat has calmed down. He hasn’t even realised that it has been beating so quickly. “I… Okay.”

Valjean’s hand curls over his jaw. But before he can speak, Javert turns his head, kissing the palm.

“I want to do this too,” he murmurs. He lifts his eyes, quirking his lips a little. “I was the one who asked, remember? I was the one who put the idea in your head.”

“Yeah,” Valjean says, his voice barely more than the ghost of a breath. He nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Javert nods. He breathes in hard through his nose, and slides his hands down from Valjean’s neck to his shoulders, splaying upon his chest. He feels the steady heartbeat there, letting the swiftness of it tattoo itself on his skin, before he moves down to the hem of the shirt. Valjean shifts, and he lets Javert pull it off.

His skin looks almost yellowish under the lights. Something twists inside Javert, and he kisses Valjean again – softly, barely a brush of lips against the corner of his mouth – before he pulls away.

“Give me a couple of seconds,” he says, knuckles stroking under Valjean’s eyes to soothe away the sudden startled look that has appeared there. “Just… a couple of seconds.”

After Valjean nods, he straightens again. His hands shake a little before he takes both of the silver candlesticks from behind the glass shelf of the bedroom. Setting them down on the nightstand, he places one candle in each and lights them. Wax threatens to drip down to the silver, and he almost catches it with his hand before he remembers not to and lets the droplets land on the wood of the nightstand instead.

Taking a deep breath, he steadies himself, trying to not look at Valjean just yet. He switches off the light, and closes the bedroom door.

The light of the candles casts a soft glow throughout the room, with shadows spreading out over the walls. Javert turns his eyes towards Valjean, and his breath catches at how the light slides over his skin, turning it burnished bronze that seems to gleam, startlingly contrasting against the shadows of the prison tattoo on his chest, and the ones he has chosen on his neck and his arms.

Valjean has turned towards him while Javert has been staring. Javert feels the breath punched out of him when he looks at those eyes. Like this, inquisitive and without a hint of fear, the candlelight casts stars within those dark depths, as if illuminating the soul within. Valjean licks his lips, clearly a little nervous from Javert’s unrelenting stare, and Javert’s hands shake from the way the light skitters over his mouth now, turning dark pink into two pieces of perfectly-cut gems, so much more precious because they are warm instead of cold.

“Javert,” Valjean says. “Will you… will you come over here?”

He walks over, still in a daze. His hand cups Valjean’s cheek, and he sees the way the shadows of his fingers fall over the cheekbones, the stark darkness making Valjean’s skin glows even more. When Valjean tilts his head towards that hand, his lashes catch the light reflecting off the silver candlestick, and there are stars there too.

“I’ve wanted to see you like this for ages,” Javert hears himself say, barely hearing his own voice. “I… God. God, you’re so beautiful. You’re so beautiful like this.”

The cheek beneath his hand warms even further. Valjean ducks his head, lowering his eyes. Immediately, Javert drops to his knees in front of him, both hands curling around Valjean’s cheeks now. He brushes his fingers from the corner of those eyes, following the deep-etched lines of sorrow down to the mouth, and he leans in to kiss him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says again. “Your skin. Your mouth. Your _eyes_. The soul I see in your eyes…” He almost laughs at himself, because he has never dared to say this, any of this, for fear that it is too much.

“Even if it’s only me who sees it, you’re beautiful, Valjean.”

“I…” Valjean says. He swallows, and the shadows on his throat dances, twitches over the tattoo on the side of his neck. “I’ve never thought… I…”

He smiles. It looks uncertain, a little strained at the corners. 

“Surely you’ve seen more beautiful men than me,” he says.

Javert kisses him again, presses his mouth against those lips. He breathes in as if he is trying to drawn into the sight of that mouth in candlelight and imprint it into his lungs.

“No, I haven’t,” he says, and crooks his mouth upwards. “Their faces might be beautiful, but… your eyes.” His thumb brushes over the corners of them. “Your eyes. The soul, the heart, I see through them. I… I don’t have the words, Valjean. Nothing that’s enough.”

Valjean turns his head. The ink on his neck shifts, stretching out, shivering above burnished bronze like dark oil.

“I just… I don’t…” he trails off. He takes one of Javert’s hands, turning the palm up to press his mouth against the pulse point.

“Touch me?”

Javert nods. He nudges at Valjean’s shoulder with a hand, urging him to lie down. When Valjean does, Javert leans over him, elbow on the mattress, before he tilts his head and kisses the tattoo.

Valjean jerks. His moan makes his throat tremble, and the shadows shiver over the hollow. Javert parts his lips and takes the skin between them, sucking gently. As Valjean arches, Javert’s free hand moves down his chest, gently carding through the chest hair before he tugs at the belt. It’s a little difficult to remove with just one hand, but Valjean helps, and soon trousers, underwear, and belt are all a pile on the ground, kicked off.

Strong thighs. Strong calves. The muscles ripple under the candlelight, under Javert’s gaze. Javert strokes his fingers beneath the newly-revealed skin, watching the shadows cast by the candlelight as it dances. Valjean’s blush is spreading over his chest now, and Javert presses a kiss there, right above the prison tattoo. As always, it tastes bitter, and he licks and licks, trying to reach the salt of the skin beneath. Believing – illogically, foolishly – that he can heal the scars caused by the brand with his lips and tongue if he just tries hard enough.

“Your clothes,” Valjean says, and tugs at Javert’s collar. “Will you _please_ get them off so I can touch you properly?”

He nods, and moves away. He does not register removing his clothes – he’s moving at automatic, eyes caught by the way Valjean’s broad chest heaves with each breath; how the shadows caught by each rib, just beneath the pectorals, seems to curl and sink even deeper into the skin.

Plastic crinkles as he grabs for the bag. He empties it over the bed, and Valjean rolls over. Javert’s eyes are caught momentarily by the way the candlelight catches on the lash scars there – the stark whiteness softened by the yellow glow, half-fading into the bronze skin. Before Valjean can roll once more onto his back, Javert leans in, hand splaying on his waist.

Taking one of the metre-rolls of ribbon, he pulls off the tape sealing it and drops it to the ground. The satin unravels, shimmering emerald-like, as it pools atop of those scars. Javert moves the spool of it, letting the end trail from one shoulder to the other. His fingers curl at the twitch of the muscles beneath them, and his own heart roars even louder in his ears.

“Javert,” Valjean murmurs. His voice is half-muffled by the mattress. His shoulders tremble beneath Javert’s hands, even twitch of muscles desiring, reaching out for more.

 _I can do this_. The thought comes to him suddenly, and Javert shudders at the force of it. _I can give him pleasure. I can do this_.

“Let me look,” he says, and the hoarseness of his own voice takes him by surprise. He swallows hard. “Please, just… just let me look for a while.”

Valjean looks at him from over the curve of his shoulders. Javert waits, forcing his fingers to not curl upon that strong waist, until he nods. Then he pulls more of the ribbon, taking one end and laying it over Valjean’s neck.

“I’m not going to collar you,” he says. Instinct drives every word now. His mind is empty. “I just…”

He drapes the length of green from neck down to the back. There, like this- like this, the green shimmers between the dark oil of the tattoo, the white of the scars, and the bronze of the untouched skin. He takes a deep breath, and lets his fingers follow the line.

“I wish I can show you what I see through my eyes,” he says, keeping his voice low. “I wish I can show you just how beautiful you are, right now. How much it means to me that you’ll let me do this. You… you have the most reason to not trust me, yet…”

Valjean rolls to his back. The ribbon is trapped beneath, but Javert cannot care about it because Valjean is taking his hand again, kissing his knuckles as dark eyes look at him.

“I trust you,” he says. His eyes glow in the candlelight. “I trust you, Javert. You have never, not once, given me a reason to not trust you.”

Javert does not dare to speak. He only nods, bringing up their joined hands and kissing on the scarred wrist. He hears Valjean let out a breath, soft and tremulous; he takes a step towards the bedpost, and presses Valjean’s left hand there against one of the bars of the metal headboard.

“It’s only ribbons,” he says, and tugs gently to free the end trapped beneath Valjean’s body. The satin is warm to the touch, Valjean’s scent already coiling around it. “You… you can break them at any time. I’m not… I’m not going to pull too hard.”

Nodding, Valjean curls his hand around the bar. Javert unwinds the entire length of ribbon from the spool, letting it all spill over his hands before he ties a quick dead-knot around the wrist and the metal. His hands are trembling. Valjean’s fingers stroke over the backs of them, and the tremors still.

“You forgot to bring scissors,” Valjean says. He shifts a little on the bed, and his smile is a little amused. “It tickles a little.”

“I…” Javert swallows. “I didn’t forget.”

Valjean blinks. Javert tries to smile. “Let me?” he asks.

When he has a nod for permission, he shifts. Balancing himself, he swings one leg over Valjean’s body, half-straddling his abdomen. His thighs strain as he keeps himself just a little above skin. 

He leans over Valjean’s left arm. Slowly, carefully taking note of any possible adverse reactions, he winds the ribbons from wrist to shoulder in a crisscrossing pattern. Every meeting on the top of the arm is twisted twice to make sure that it’s secure, but he makes sure, too, that the cloth remains flat everywhere else so it does not dig into skin. He avoids the elbow, pressing a thumb against the centre of it to nudge Valjean to test it so he knows it can still bend. When he reaches the shoulder, there is a great deal of ribbon left.

So he crosses it back upwards again, this time twisting the cloth under the arm. When he reaches the wrist once more, he ties a butterfly-knot at the back, letting the final ends of the ribbon trail downwards to sweep against the sheets. 

Green practically covers bronze now, little squares of skin peeking through satin. Javert has avoided the two tattoos on Valjean’s left arm – one near his elbow, and the other lower down his forearm – and the black ink gleams, slick with sweat and catching the green-gold light of reflecting off the candle-lit ribbons. He holds his breath and tries to calm himself down. He slides his fingers from palm downwards to the shoulder, and watches as Valjean’s eyes darken as he tests the bonds gingerly and finds that they hold.

“Oh,” Valjean says. His voice is heavy, so breathy that the word comes out mangled. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Oh.”

His eyes turn to meet Javert’s. “Where… where did you learn this?”

“I…” Javert ducks his head, embarrassed. “I looked it up. Then I… I practiced.”

“On yourself?” Valjean blinks.

Javert shakes his head. “On a chair leg,” he says. He’s blushing now, he knows, so he busies himself with ripping the tape off of another spool of ribbon. “I didn’t… I didn’t know if it would work until now.”

“Oh,” Valjean says again. He tugs on the knots. His skin pales a little at every point where it meets cloth, the shadows leaping from it and shimmering across the green, turning it emerald. Javert’s breath catches in his throat.

Valjean’s fingers brush over his cheek. When Javert looks up, he closes his right hand over the other side of the headboard.

“Do the other one?”

Nodding, Javert does. He can’t help but slide his fingers over skin whenever he twists the ribbon this time. His hands are steady somehow though every single breath trips over itself, and his head is almost dizzied from his want. He tries to not linger on the spider’s web tattoo just below Valjean’s right elbow, though his tongue aches to taste.

When he’s done, he pushes himself off of the bed, leaning with one hand over the mattress so he can look.

Valjean’s shoulders strain with the holding his arms over his head like this. The muscles bulge at intervals as he tightens and relaxes them, and the ribbons grow lax, then snug again. The glow from the candlelight shifts from cloth to skin. There’s a spot near the shoulder where the satin is darkening as it soaks in Valjean’s gathering sweat, and light slicks over it, casting tiny stars with every twitch of muscle. Like this…

Like this, Valjean looks like a work of art. Javert swallows.

“Will you,” his voice is little but a croak. He swallows, and clears his throat. “Will you let me do the same to your legs?”

Valjean is biting his lip now. He nods. Javert forces his gaze to not travel down from those dark eyes down to his throat and chest and stomach, because he knows that if he even looks at how aroused Valjean is from this, he’ll come right then, without even needing to be touched.

Instead, he takes another spool of ribbon and moves to the end of the bed, a knee sinking into the mattress. Tossing away the cardboard centre again, he urges Valjean to bend his right leg. Taking the middle of the length of cloth, he starts from the arch of the foot, tying a dead-knot at the top of it. Then he slides the ribbon over the toes, letting cloth touch the thin web in between before he loops it to both ends to the back of the ankle, right at the Achilles’s tendon, and ties another knot there. 

Slowly, keeping his eyes on his task, he winds the ribbon around the leg. He tries to not react to how Valjean’s skin twitches against every twist of the ribbon. He tries to not be distracted by how the toes are curling, tugging on the ribbon. He holds his breath and keeps his hands steady as he crosses the satin over the strong, thick thigh. He refuses to let his eyes travel upwards when he ties the ribbon off right at the juncture of the hip. He forces patience down his own throat as he moves down to the ankle and back up again.

“Javert,” Valjean murmurs. His hips arch, and he kicks out. Javert hooks his fingers beneath the ribbon at the ankle, using it to throw Valjean’s leg over his shoulder before he turns his head. There, right in front of him, is a square of bronze skin that peeks out beneath the green satin. Javert presses his lips against it, licking. He groans at the contrast between the too-smooth cloth and rougher skin, and Valjean makes a noise deep in his throat, his ankle digging into Javert’s shoulderblade.

“Please,” Valjean pants. “Please.”

 _You want this_ , Javert thinks, suddenly dizzy. He closes his eyes, and presses his face against skin and satin, trying to still the shudders of his own body. _You really, really do want this_.

Valjean doesn’t lie to him nowadays. But he still hides, he still gives too much, and Javert feels the last shield around his heart shatter completely at the sheer want in that voice.

“Just one more,” he says. He lifts his head, and meets Valjean’s eyes, licking his own lips and letting Valjean to see the surely-dilated pupils, the burning desire, in them. “Just… just one more.”

Taking a deep breath, Valjean nods. “I…” he swallows. His arms twitch, straining at the ribbons. “I… Okay. I can be patient.”

Javert smiles at him as steadily as he can. Then he pulls away, grabbing the last spool of ribbon.

By the time he reaches Valjean’s other thigh the second time, his hands are shaking. His hands tangle in green – distantly, he notes that the colour does not look nearly as good on his own skin – before he grabs the ends of the other spool still dangling from Valjean’s right thigh.

“I’m going to try something,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady, willing himself to not tangle the ribbons so tightly around his fingers that it cuts to the bone. “Tell me… tell me if you don’t like it.”

He waits for Valjean to nod. When he has permission, he ties a thick butterfly-knot with the end freely-hanging ends, making sure that this stretch has enough, but not too much, give.

When he finishes, he turns his head up and looks into Valjean’s eyes. Then he finally lets himself look at Valjean’s cock. It’s thick and hard, the vein underneath faintly throbbing. Javert holds his breath, and keeps it held in his lungs as he lifts the half-tight length and loops it over. He lets go.

The solid knot snaps tight right amidst the curls. The short, dangling ends frame the length. Valjean’s hips snap upwards the very moment Javert has let go, a strangled cry escaping his throat. Javert watches, blood rushing hard and fast in his veins, as a single drop of pre-come slides down the red-darkened length to soak into the ribbon.

“Oh God,” a voice says. It takes Javert a moment to recognise it as his own. “Oh. Oh my God.”

“Ja _vert_ ,” Valjean says, his voice cracking at the second syllable. His entire body is trembling now, and Javert marvels at his control: the edges of every crisscrossed square are soaking with sweat, the satin strains – but does not break.

“Is—” he swallows hard, and perhaps it’s foolish, but he needs to ask: “Is this okay? Do you want me to—”

“Come here,” Valjean says, cutting him off. “Come up here, Javert. Please.”

Javert goes – how can he resist? His elbow sinks down on the mattress again, and he leans over Valjean. Those dark eyes are glazed over now, and the candlelight, burning lower, casts long shadows of his lashes on his cheeks. Javert’s breath catches in his throat, and he can barely regain his mind to breathe before Valjean arches up and crashes their mouths together.

They kiss with a ferocity that has always been there, under the surface, between them, but has never been unleashed. Valjean takes his mouth and Javert lets him, his hand shaking as it slides from the side of Valjean’s neck up to his arm, sliding over satin and skin. Valjean’s muscles jump under his touch, bulging slightly against the edges of the ribbons, and Javert groans, his hips thrusting forward.

When his cock slides over Valjean’s stomach, he throws his head back, breaking the kiss with a groan. Sparks burst bright behind his eyes when one leg swings over his hips, rough-smooth calf sliding over the back of his thigh, his hips, all the way up to his waists.

“ _God_ ,” he breathes.

Valjean is looking at him with eyes so dark that there are no remnants of brown left. His lips are swollen red and slick with spit. He turns his head, panting, and Javert feels air punched out of his lungs at the sheer contrast between those lips and the darkening ribbons on his arms and the bronze of his skin.

He wishes he could paint. He wishes he was a good enough photographer to catch this. But- no. No, that’s a terrible idea, because Javert is at heart a selfish man, and he wants no one else to be able to see this.

“I’m going to,” he says, and stops because that’s not the way he wants to ask this. He licks his lips again instead of biting them, and tries again.

“Let me spoil you,” he says, knowing that he sounds desperate but no longer caring. “Please. Please just let me spoil you.”

Dark eyes take a moment before focusing on him. “You’re already spoiling me,” Valjean says. He tilts his head back, and Javert watches, fascinated, as his ribs expand, making the shadows ripple, as he takes a deep, gulping breath. “You’re already spoiling me with this. Oh _God_.”

“More,” Javert says, even more desperately. His hand cups Valjean’s cheek, shuddering fingers drumming an unintentional and haphazard rhythm against the bone. “Let me spoil you more.”

_Let me spoil you until you feel how much you mean to me. Let me spoil you until I cover your world with the pleasure that you should have had long ago. Let me spoil you until you realise just how much you have saved me the moment you appeared in my life again._

_Let me do this until I look at you and no longer remember the fear you once looked at me with. Until I feel myself worthy of the trust that you give me, over and over again, even though I deserve none of it._

He does not know what is in his own eyes. But Valjean seems to understand, nonetheless, because the glazed look fades a little. When he tips his head, the kiss he gives Javert is one that is slow and tender and sweet, lips sliding over lips, touching instead of taking.

“Okay,” he breathes. He sinks back against the mattress. The edges of his eyes curve upwards with his smile. “Okay.”

Javert closes his eyes. He rests his forehead over Valjean’s chest, listening to the thundering heartbeat that is thrumming counterpoint to his. He takes a deep breath before he looks up again and presses their mouths together.

“Thank you,” he says.

Then he pushes himself upwards. His legs fold, and he straddles Valjean’s stomach again, taking care to not put his whole weight on him. Like this, he stretches out, using the length of his body to his advantage as he leans over Valjean’s right wrist.

Slowly, gently, he begins to kiss. He kisses every single patch of exposed skin beneath the ribbons. He wets the satin with his tongue, dipping beneath the cloth at the wrist to follow the lines of the scars. He hears Valjean’s breathing hitch, a sound almost like a sob, and he moves down the arm even as he cups a hand over a cheek without looking. Air shudders out of him when he feels Valjean take his thumb into his mouth, as Valjean’s tongue slides over the gun-callused tip and joints.

 _Let me spoil you_ , he thinks. He shudders hard when he reaches the first tattoo, licking against it. The ink tastes molasses-dark and sweet, weighing on his tongue. Javert closes his eyes, using all of the force of will he has to control himself so he can move on. His tongue darts into the inside of the elbow: salt gathers there, mixing with the sweetness, and he muffles his groan on the second tattoo, his breath stuttering out of his throat. 

Somehow, he manages to reach the shoulder. He curls his tongue into the collar of the collarbone, swiping the insides just once before he moves to the neck. Opening his mouth, he brackets the tattoo on the side with his lips. 

He sucks _hard_ , he lavishes attention on the spot until he tastes the barest hint of rust-red on his tongue on his tongue before he pulls away.

Valjean’s cheeks are fully red by now, the colour spreading down to his neck. The skin above his pulse trembles with every single breath. The sweat has turned the green on the other arm into a dark, oily black, the candles’ flames licking across the length, shining over Valjean's skin. The slick half-darkness of the satin darkens Valjean’s blush even further, turning his skin a burnished bronze that is more beautiful than any sunset Javert has ever seen.

The colours shift every time the air from their combined breaths makes the candles’ flames flicker. Shadows dance over skin, skittering over spots, hiding then revealing. Javert just stills immediately, irresistibly caught by the sheer beauty spreading itself out over him. Something twists inside Javert, threatening to shatter his control into nothingness. 

He closes his eyes, pulling his control even tighter around himself before he shifts, moving to the other arm.

This time, the salt-taste is heavier here. Sweat and skin and cloth, the ocean-scent mixing with the faint tang of new-bought ribbons, melding into the earth-grass-sunshine of Valjean’s natural scent. Javert breathes it in, feeling it spread outwards, spider-web strong, reaching into every part of him, tangling with his nerves and marking him as Valjean’s.

Somehow, he feels as if he will never breathe again without having this in his nose and the back of his throat. 

Good.

Spider-web in his lungs; spider-web on Valjean’s elbow. Javert’s eyes fall half-shut. The tip of his tongue traces the thin, strict lines. Molasses and earth. Javert has tasted a thousand things, and none of them are like Valjean.

When he reaches the shoulder this time, he tries to not look at Valjean’s face. He doesn’t think he can control himself if he looks into those dark eyes. But he doesn’t have a choice – Valjean hooks his leg over his hip, digging his ankle into the small of his back, and Javert nearly crashes down onto him before he stops himself with an elbow to the mattress.

“Enough,” Valjean says. His voice is barely a rasp. “Enough. Javert, please.” He rocks upwards, his erection brushing over Javert’s hip, satin ghosting over Javert’s cock. 

“ _Please_.”

Javert cannot – simply _cannot_ – breathe. Air is trapped in his throat. Valjean’s eyes are dark, so dark that they are fully black, and wild, burning with want, and Javert’s hands tremble. He digs them into the sheets, claws on them, but it does not help.

Tremulously, he strokes his hand over Valjean’s cheek.

“You don’t have to beg me,” he rasps. His fingers hover over Valjean’s mouth. He’s not daring enough, but Valjean somehow _knows_ anyway, before he parts his lips and takes Javert’s fingers in. He slicks them up fully, sucking and licking, and Javert grits his teeth and hisses his breath through them as his cock throbs between his legs, aching from the lack of touch.

Not yet. Not just yet.

Valjean releases his fingers while he’s still in the midst of the mantra. Javert gulps down air again, dizzied by the lack of it. His head spins. He ducks down, pressing kisses onto Valjean’s chest, around the dark prison tattoo then darting his tongue to following every line and curve of the number. Coarse, sparse chest hair scrapes over his tongue, the barest roughness against the smoothness of the skin.

He follows it downwards. He mouths over the trail of hairs, tilting his head away from Valjean’s cock. A growl comes from above him, and Javert swallows at the sudden shiver he feels, barely able to remain in control as he picks up one end of the ribbon with his tongue. He slips it into his mouth, sitting back a little as he looks up to Valjean. 

Surely he looks ridiculous like this, but he can’t even care about it when he _feels_ Valjean’s erection twitch against his cheek and the way his entire body shudders around him.

Turning away, he opens his mouth even more. At the same time, he shifts a little, nudging Valjean’s legs upwards with one hand, one after the other. The weight settles on his shoulders, and he takes a deep breath.

And he slides a finger inside Valjean even as he lets his tongue run over the butterfly-knot at the base, circling, barely teasing the skin.

Valjean gives him a cry that is utterly wordless, inarticulate, and half-strangled by his throat. His legs tighten, skin pulling against the ribbons, making the satin strain. Javert wants desperately to lick, to taste, but his mouth is preoccupied as he tilts his head up and slides the head of Valjean’s cock between his lips.

 _Clean_. No matter how many times he does this for Valjean, this is the first thing his tongue notices. Sharp but clean, the scent curling into his nose instead of driving painfully in. The weight and girth of him fill Javert’s mouth, and he groans, his hips driving into the mattress as Valjean’s tremble.

He shifts, pulling away. Pressing a kiss against the juncture of thigh and hip, he sneaks his tongue beneath the ribbon, catching the taste of sweat and filling his lungs with the salt of sweat along with the heavier musk of want.

Drawing his finger out of Valjean, he kisses that spot again at the whine that resounds around him. He looks up, meeting those dark eyes, watching as those arms strain against the ribbons.

Shoving another finger into his mouth, he tastes Valjean’s spit along with his own.

“Don’t hold back,” he says, his own voice barely holding together, cracking at the seams. He swallows. “Please don’t hold back.”

Valjean nods. He trembles. His hands are clenching and unclenching around the metal bar of the headboard. Javert takes a deep breath.

This time, he takes Valjean down to the root. At the same time, he pushes two fingers inside him, curling upwards. They don’t do it this way often, but Javert always has a good memory for what’s important to him, and he finds Valjean’s prostate immediately. Twisting his fingers even further, he slides his calluses right over the spot.

Then he pulls back entirely, hollows his cheeks, and drives his fingers inside even as he dips his head until his nose are buried into the sparse curls at the base.

“ _Javert!_ ” Valjean cries out. His hips slam forward. Javert breathes out through his nose, letting Valjean fuck his throat as he rubs his fingers over that spot inside, over and over again.

This close, he can tell exactly when Valjean is about to come. The balls beneath his chin tighten. Gently, carefully, Javert pulls back. He draws the butterfly-knot downwards, letting the solidity of the knot press against the base of Valjean’s cock, right above his balls. Then, with his fingers tangled in satin, Javert presses two fingers between the balls, and pushes them back down. Valjean makes a sound, heavily strangled by his throat, but Javert doesn’t give him time to protest.

 _Let me spoil you,_ he pleads silently, unable to speak when his mouth is full. He starts to thrust his fingers into Valjean, keeping the grip on his balls steady as he fucks him with his fingers. At the same time, he keeps his throat relaxed, shifting a little so Valjean has the space to fuck his throat, over and over again.

He has let other men do this. But never with pleasure coiling so tight in his stomach that he feels as if he can come with just the sheets against his cock; never with his heart spilling over with every cry Valjean gifts him. Never with his chest aching with the joy of this, the giving of pleasure without needing anything in return. Never with the world disappearing so utterly, narrowing down to the mangled cries of his name mixed with _Oh God_ and _Please_.

“Please, Javert,” Valjean gasps out. He’s thrusting steadily now, his ankles digging into Javert’s back, his thighs trembling around him. “Please, please, _please_!”

 _Not yet_ , Javert thinks. He does not know when he should, only that this… this is not all that he has to give. Not all that he _wants_ to give.

Pulling out his fingers suddenly, he slides another into his mouth, drumming it against the underside of Valjean’s cock as he sucks hard. Valjean whines, sharp and loud, arching his back, and Javert pulls out the finger and pushes all three back inside him. He crooks them, twists them, and presses _hard_ against the spot within.

“Javert! _Please_!”

He wants to see Valjean’s face, wants to look at his expression when he is so overcome. But he’s focused now. Almost, _almost_ , and he presses even harder down on the trembling balls, thumb sliding in, forcing them apart gently. The satin framing the base of Valjean’s cock tightens further.

Valjean’s hips snap upwards, and he sobs. Javert thrusts his fingers inside again, cockscrewing them against the spot, rubbing against it with first his calluses then his nails then back again. Valjean cries out, fully sobbing now, every breath hitching.

“Oh God, oh God, please, please, I can’t- I can’t- please, Javert, I can’t- oh God, it’s too good, please- I can’t- I-”

Javert slides his fingers out until only the tips remain within. He spreads them outwards as much as he can even as he draws backwards, letting only the head of Valjean’s cock remain in his mouth. His tongue swirls over the head, bitter pre-come imprinting over his tongue.

Then he dives back downwards and thrusts his fingers in. He sucks _hard_ , rubbing the spot over and over until he hears Valjean’s voice crack.

He lets go. Satin loosens, dark green against greying curls.

Valjean _screams_. His balls draw up closer immediately. Javert twists his fingers just once more, and he hears the sound of satin snapping. Hands sink into his hair, thighs press tight against his jaw. Valjean’s cock shoves right down his throat as he comes, and Javert is left trembling with the sound of the scream echoing around the room.

Javert breathes. Simply breathes as he swallows, over and over again. He lets the sound of the scream sink inside him. Torn edges of the ribbons slide over his shoulders; his skin is already oversensitive with need, and he moans, unable to help himself. Come spills over his lips, and he sweeps it away absentmindedly with a hand.

When Valjean has nothing more to give, he pulls off of him. Gently, careful to not overstimulate, he licks him clean. Valjean groans, the muscles on his abdomen tightening, and Javert feels his own cock throbbing hard between his own legs.

Slowly, he crawls upwards. Valjean looks a mess, sweat beading over his lashes, soaking in his beard. The ribbons on his arms are full-dark and torn, ragged edges falling all over the white sheets. Candlelight shivers over his throat with every gasping breath, and his eyes are so dark, so incredibly dazed.

Javert can no longer help himself. He straddles Valjean’s hips again, carefully avoiding touching his cock. Keeping his gaze on those eyes, on that expression of completely wrecked pleasure on Valjean’s face, he closes his hand over his own cock. It twitches immediately, so starved for touch that even his own will do. Raising his other hand, he slides them over his mouth, sucking off the taste of Valjean’s come as his head drops backwards as he groans.

He’s not sure how long he spends doing this. He wants to come, but he’s hovering at the edge without being able to tip over it. Eventually, his vision starts to edge with grey, just a little, and he can’t keep his eyes on Valjean’s face anymore.

So he doesn’t notice when Valjean sits up, but he _does_ when a hand pushes his own away, curling around his cock. He gasps, hips thrusting up, because- because the calluses are familiar, but there is the satin-smoothness that isn’t. His head drops forward now, and he’s rocking up steadily. Almost, _almost_ —

Valjean’s other hand closes, gently, around his neck. Barely more than weight. Barely more than just the stark contrast between calluses, skin, and satin. Javert whines, clawing at his own thighs, and Valjean knows him too well by now.

His hand tightens. For the briefest of moments, Javert cannot breathe. His control, held together for so long, finally spills over his hands.

White stars burst behind his eyes. He hears his own voice, as if from a long distance away, as he cries out, strangled and sharp. He gasps, hands scrambling for some sort of grip, as Valjean tugs his fingers out of his mouth. He makes some sort of sound as Valjean kisses him, presses his lips against Javert’s and inhales, stealing all of the breath out of his lungs.

He’s shaking by the time he comes down from his high. Somehow, his cheek is against Valjean’s shoulder, body curled a little awkwardly because he’s too bloody tall, as always. Valjean’s hand is on the nape of his neck, fingers stroking over the small hairs there, over and over, and Javert trembles and trembles at the touch.

“Thank you,” Valjean says. His voice is raspy, barely there, and Javert feels a thrill of selfish satisfaction go down his spine because he knows, _knows_ , that it’s because of him. Because of the pleasure he has caused.

Slowly, he pulls backwards. His head is still spinning, as if it’s not really sitting right on his shoulders. He sighs quietly, a gust of air escaping him, as he leans forward until his forehead touches Valjean’s.

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says. He meets those dark eyes, and tries to smile. “I… I wanted to. Really, I did.”

Valjean opens his mouth, but Javert presses his fingers over his lips. “Shhh,” he says. His smile widens lopsidedly. “Lie back down. Let me do this, please.”

Meeting his gaze for a long moment, Valjean nods. He sinks back down onto the bed.

There is still darkness in his eyes. Still desire lingering there, catching candlelight and glowing like stars. Javert leans forward, cupping Valjean’s face as he leans in. He kisses him, soft and sweet again, before he pulls back.

When Valjean tries to tug him down again, he catches a hand, kissing the knuckles. “Let me,” he repeats, and waits until the tension dissipates.

The ribbons are still clinging onto Valjean’s arm, stuck there by sweat. Javert peels off one of the ends, kissing the exposed skin beneath. He feels it tremble against him, and he starts to pull them off, unwinding and untwisting, kissing every new patch of skin revealed. It’s a little red but there are no wounds, no signs of bruises forming. He lets out a sigh of relief.

He reaches the shoulders while bent over Valjean, and he tosses away the bits and pieces of ribbon, shoving them off of the bed before he licks against the tattoo on his neck again. Valjean shudders against him, head tilting. Javert presses a kiss on the jaw before he moves onto the other arm and does the same thing.

Valjean is practically melting against the sheets by the time he reaches his neck again. Javert kisses him, sliding his tongue between his teeth. Valjean makes a soft sound, almost a purr, and Javert cups the back of his neck. He strokes his thumb over the nape, around to the hollow of the throat, following the same path that Valjean always takes with him, and Valjean groans quietly.

“Javert,” he breathes. His hand trembles as he brushes the back of it over Javert’s cheek. “Come here?”

“In a little bit,” he smiles, and moves onto the legs.

It’s a trickier, with the dead-knots he has tied to secure the ribbons. But Javert has his own strengths, and he uses both hands to snap the satin on one side of the knots. Valjean shivers when the cloth loosens around his skin, and Javert nudges his leg up, resting it onto his own shoulder as he starts kissing down every single spot revealed by the unravelling knots.

He ignores the still-soft cock between Valjean’s thighs. He doesn’t expect him to get hard again, and this… this isn’t for that.

Valjean’s breaths are deep and steady by the time both thighs are free. There is only the knot still resting amongst his curls. Javert keeps his hand steady as he hooks his fingers into one of the whorls of the butterfly and lifts it off of him entirely. 

Tossing the ribbon to the side, he avoids Valjean’s hand. He reaches for the nightstand, grabbing the wet wipes that Valjean keeps there. Then he straddles Valjean again, cleaning him off before taking his hand and swiping the wipe over his fingers, meeting those dark eyes and holding onto them.

The moment he shoves the wipe off the bed as well, Valjean tries to catch him again. This time, Javert lets himself be moved: he drops down onto the bed, sighing as he curls around Valjean, resting his head on top of the broad chest. Their legs tangle together.

Soft lips press into his hair. Javert tips his head up, meeting that mouth with his own, and Valjean’s fingers strokes over his spine.

“Javert, you…” Valjean pauses, and he kisses Javert’s hair again.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, words a little muffled. “You did so, so well.”

Javert closes his eyes. His hand clenches around Valjean’s shoulder as a knot within him that he hasn’t even noticed loosens. His breath comes easily suddenly, and he just sinks completely into Valjean’s arms. His entire body feels as if it has turned into liquid.

“You made me feel so good, Javert,” Valjean continues, and Javert buries his face into Valjean’s neck as his body begins to tremble. Valjean’s hand strokes over his back. “It felt so good. You _did_ spoil me.”

It’s ridiculous, the effect that those words have on him. Javert has no idea what to make of it, much less _why_. He draws in a breath, filling himself entirely with Valjean’s scent again before he nods.

“Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse. “ _Thank you_.”

“Mm,” Valjean says. He hesitates. “It wasn’t sure if… if that was appropriate.”

Javert lifts his head. He tries for a smile, and knows that it trembles at the edges with the sheer force of emotion he feels now.

“It was,” he says. Grabbing blindly, he takes Valjean’s hand and kisses his knuckles. “I… It really was.”

 _You know me too well_ , he wants to say. But Valjean knows that, perhaps even better than Javert himself does.

Valjean smiles at him, eyes soft. His knuckles brush over Javert’s cheek, and he tips his head up for another kiss. Javert opens his mouth immediately, returning it.

“So good,” Valjean repeats. His hand strokes from the base of Javert’s neck to the small of his back, over the entire length of his spine. Javert arches towards it, eyes fluttering close as the sheer pleasure that curls around him from the touch.

“I’m glad,” he murmurs. “It’s… I… I liked doing that.”

He doesn’t know where the words are coming from either. It’s as if a baser part of his brain has taken over his body while the rest of his mind has shut off from the sheer _satisfaction_ that surrounds him now. Valjean’s praise is far better than any other’s he has received.

“Mm,” Valjean says again, and there’s so much warmth and pleasure and _approval_ in his voice that Javert can’t help but make a small noise at it, curling even closer. Valjean kisses his hair again, then down to his eyes and over his lips.

“Sleep, Javert,” he murmurs. “We’ll sleep for now.”

“Okay,” Javert says, helpless but to obey. Somewhere in his mind, he notes that they’ll have to talk about this in the morning. But that doesn’t make him afraid or even apprehensive. He has made Valjean feel good. He has shown him what he means to him, and Valjean is okay with it. More than okay, he approves of it, and he feels the same.

Valjean’s hand strokes over his hair again, slow and rhythmic. Javert starts to fall asleep.

Just before the darkness claims him, he thinks he hears:

“What did they _do_ to you?”

 _Nothing_ , he thinks fuzzily. _Nothing that you haven’t already healed_.

_End_


End file.
